


Photos of Paris

by Aria_Faye



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Inspired by Fanart, Kinda, M/M, Paris holiday, Post-Eighth Year, magical camera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 16:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13527834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Faye/pseuds/Aria_Faye
Summary: “But before we go—” Draco held a box out to Harry with a smile.Harry looked at it and then back up at Draco, eyebrow cocked. “I thought we weren’t doing graduation gifts.”With an eyeroll, Draco said, “It’s not a graduation gift, exactly. Look; it’s not even wrapped. Just—will you take it already?”So Harry did. He opened it slowly, all the while glancing suspiciously at his boyfriend. And rightly so, he thought, when he pulled out a beautiful, brand-new magical camera. He gaped at Draco. “What the hell kind of non-gift do you call this?” he prodded, and Draco smiled even wider.“I never said it wasn’t a gift. Just not a gift for graduation.” He took the empty box and Vanished it. “You mentioned not having many pictures, so I thought you might like this. For France. And…after.”





	Photos of Paris

**Author's Note:**

> So...I didn't ship Drarry at all until about a month ago. Years and years of Harry Potter, and it took me being absolutely bowled over by the amount of beautiful content that people create for this ship to see the light. I dove in with both feet. This is a thing I tried because I was vividly inspired by some of the art I've seen. I tried a slightly different writing style here to see if I could manage to get the same visceral imagery to come across with words. There may be a second part, if I think of any more vignettes to add, but I figured I may as well post what I've got and add a second chapter later if I end up making one.
> 
> This is for [UptheHill](http://upthehillart.tumblr.com/), [Skarhead](http://skarhead.tumblr.com/), and [Camael-Fanart](http://camael-fanart.tumblr.com/). If you've never seen their art, you're missing out! Their art styles are what made me want to write this, so go show them some love!

On the last day of eighth year, Harry stood on the steps of the castle, one hand pressed to the stone wall by the doors as though saying goodbye to a dear friend. And, in a way, he was. “I guess this is it, then,” he murmured. All day, his eyes had felt on the verge of tearing up, his stomach twisting uncomfortably every so often. It did it again now, and he gritted his teeth against the mist rising in his eyes. “Thanks, then. For everything.”

A few years ago, Harry would have felt rather stupid for talking to a building. But, after everything that had happened since he had first stepped foot through these enormous oak doors as a bright-eyed eleven-year old, Harry knew how important it was to say proper goodbyes. So he rested his forehead on the wall and tried to convey through some kind of silent sentience the myriad feelings that coiled around his memories of the castle. Joy and excitement, but also fear. Trepidation. Laughter. Anger. Love. Hatred. Hatred that had secretly always been love in the first place. Betrayal, friendship, longing, pride, but most of all, Hogwarts had been the first place to inspire a feeling of _home_ in him. He took his time, trying to tell the castle just how much it meant to him that he had, for eight years, had a home there.

An unknowable amount of time later, he pulled away. Wiped his eyes. Resolved to visit soon. And, when Harry turned around, it felt like the end of something. But also the beginning of something else.

Draco was trotting over to him, beaming for all the world like he had swallowed the sun. He had finished exquisitely, of course, second in marks to Hermione only. The damned Mark on his arm was the only reason he wasn’t swimming in job offers. Still, it’s not like it mattered; the two of them had a Portkey to Paris that evening. They were going to their respective homes to unpack and repack their trunks before meeting again at the Portkey station in London. Well. Draco was going home, anyway. Harry was going shopping. After ruining nearly everything he owned (besides his school robes) in the war, Harry had decided to go pick himself some nice things to take with him. He was going to _Paris_ after all. With _Draco Malfoy_. Who rather deserved to be seen with him in something better than his usual.

“Hey,” Draco said, dropping a quick kiss on Harry’s cheek with a smile.

“Hey. We still good for our Portkey?”

“Of course.” Draco wound their fingers together, and Harry suddenly wasn’t quite so afraid of this new beginning thing. “But before we go—” He held a box out to Harry with a smile.

Harry looked at it and then back up at Draco, eyebrow cocked. “I thought we weren’t doing graduation gifts.”

With an eyeroll, Draco said, “It’s not a graduation gift, _exactly_. Look; it’s not even wrapped. Just—will you take it already?”

So Harry did. He opened it slowly, all the while glancing suspiciously at his boyfriend. And rightly so, he thought, when he pulled out a beautiful, brand-new magical camera. He gaped at Draco. “What the hell kind of non-gift do you call this?” he prodded, and Draco smiled even wider.

“I never said it wasn’t a gift. Just not a gift for graduation.” He took the empty box and Vanished it. “You mentioned not having many pictures, so I thought you might like this. For France. And…after.”

It took a second for the sheer _thoughtfulness_ of this gift to sink in. And then, Harry found himself fighting off those goddamn tears again. Today was emotional enough without his boyfriend going and surprising him with something this sweet. And Draco must have noticed his watery eyes, because he was looking significantly less pleased with himself and significantly more worried, and his mouth opened like he was about to apologize, but Harry kissed him before he could say a word. “Thank you, baby,” he said into Draco’s ear, and he felt the warmth of his blush. He pressed a kiss to the pinkest part of Draco’s cheek and smiled—a wobbly, emotional smile, but a smile nonetheless. God. Today was going to kill him.

But then, Hermione and Ron spilled out of the castle, their conversation stopping abruptly upon seeing Harry. And Draco too, but things were still a bit frosty between them, so nobody was really surprised when Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder fondly while he gave the barest of nods to Draco. “Thought you’d be the last to leave, mate,” Ron said with a smile.

Harry hoped to god he didn’t have red eyes. He’d been holding it together so well, but then Draco and the camera and his two best friends and—

He thrust the camera at Draco. “Will you—would you please take our picture?”

And so he stood with his two best friends again, arms slung around each other just like they’d always done, smiling and leaning heads on shoulders in the early summer breeze in front of the weathered stone and creaking oak doors. Hermione whispering, “I love you guys,” in his and Ron’s ears.

Somehow, it felt like a fitting first picture with his new camera.

The end of something.

But also the beginning of something, too.

Hermione offered to get one of him and Draco, and he almost declined. What if they weren’t still together the next time he looked at the picture? What if something happened in Paris? What if—what if they went back to hating each other? If the only magic in their relationship lay inside Hogwarts castle? But Draco’s hand was warm in his, and his smile was hopeful, so when Hermione clicked the shutter, Harry swayed into him, kissed his cheek, watched his eyes drift shut, his head turn like Harry had just said something soft that only he could hear. Draco had a way of doing that, of inclining his whole body toward Harry, and, once Harry had started noticing it, he’d found it terribly charming. And somehow—maybe it was the reassuring weight of Draco beside him, of their hands twisted together—Harry felt someplace deep within him that this was a perfect second picture with his new camera. Something that, with a nervous-hopeful flutter in his stomach, Harry thought he might see on his own mantelpiece someday. Years in the future, and these two pictures would still be there. They would outlive him, if he let them. Like his old pictures of his dad. Of Sirius and Remus. Somewhere in the future, there would be a picture of himself, Ron, and Hermione smiling in front of Hogwarts’ doors. Somewhere, in the future, there would also be a picture of himself and Draco Malfoy, the angle somewhat off, the interaction somewhat candid. A kiss on the cheek and a slow turning of an axis, like gravity had been thrown away.

He didn’t know if that notion was satisfying or scary.

-

Harry wasn’t sure what had possessed him to pull out his camera in the middle of a crowded Portkey station, but when he snapped the picture of Draco leaning against a wall, Muggle sunglasses pushed haphazardly up into his hair as he sipped from a paper coffee cup, he knew he had done the right thing.

Draco hadn’t even noticed him yet. So Harry quickly stowed his camera again before Draco caught his eye and his face split into a smile. He shoved off the wall, weaving through the stream of travelers until he managed to catch Harry up in a deep, thorough kiss. He didn’t need to say anything out loud for Harry to understand that he’d been getting nervous. Worried that Harry might not come.

After all, it was a bit crazy, really. “Come to Paris with me,” he’d said back in the eighth year common room. What he’d really meant was, “Run away with me. Let’s do that thing that lovers do. Come away with me, darling. Who gives a damn if we ever come back?” And Harry, knowing fully well what Draco had meant behind his few words, had said, “Alright.” What he’d really meant was, “I want to see what you look like in French sunlight. I want to surprise you with flowers and room service in the morning. I want to kiss you by the Seine, in alleyways, at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I want to kiss you everywhere, and I want to see what your smile looks like when you’re not buried under generations of bad decisions.” And, while Harry had indeed waffled a bit before Apparating, it had only been for a second. And then he’d remembered the camera, and all the possibilities that came with it.

Harry had never had memories worth capturing on film. Perhaps it was time to make some new ones.

-

The Parisian skyline at night truly was breathtaking.

Harry flicked the shutter, staring out their hotel room window (it had a view, because of course it did) and marveling at how the city twinkled like so many diamonds. Like it was made of only good memories and those first few thrilling heartbeats of love.

A familiar set of arms snuck their way around his waist, a familiar cheek settling beside his own. “I can’t believe we did this,” a familiar voice breathed before familiar lips pressed a kiss or two into Harry’s neck.

So familiar. He’d known those arms before they’d grown as long as they were now, that voice before it had even begun breaking with those tender early teen years. He’d known those lips since the only thing they had seemed capable of was a sneer.

He leaned back against that familiar, _familiar_ body, feeling Draco’s heart thump steadily from someplace deep inside him. The place Harry could only try to reach. He burrowed his face into Draco’s temple and quietly asked, “Are you happy?”

He felt the smile more than saw it.

“Incandescently.”

-

There was something delicate about watching Draco eat a croissant. Without a doubt, Draco Malfoy was the prettiest eater that Harry had ever seen. He hadn’t even realized it was possible to eat prettily at all, until he’d spent eight years at Hogwarts staring across the Great Hall to watch someone else like it was his sworn responsibility.

It amazed him how long it had taken him to realize that he didn’t really hate Draco.

His friends, of course, hadn’t been surprised. Obsession, after all, was just one unhealthy step away from adoration. But how that crushing obsession had somehow turned into this—into Harry sitting across from Draco at a cute little French café while Draco ate a croissant in the most beautiful way possible—Harry had no idea.

He knew Draco saw him lift the camera because Draco looked away from him. Didn’t try to stop him; only looked away with a wry smile. Bent a little to feed a bit of his breakfast to the bird that had hopped onto the empty table beside them. His hair had been growing over the last year, and it curled around his ears, jaw-length and pretty. The blond version of Parkinson’s dark bob. Harry hoped he’d keep growing it until it was long enough to wrap up in on a cold day, like the Gryffindor quidditch sweater that Draco had stolen and never given back. The one that was probably stashed away at the bottom of Draco’s trunk back in the hotel room despite the fact that it was summer and even Draco’s chances of getting cold enough for a sweater were slim.

“Well Potter?” Draco said with a smirk. “Get any good glamor shots? I hope you got my good side.” His fingers went back to tearing apart the croissant, letting it flake into the thinnest of slivers that he’d place discretely on his tongue and allow to melt. That was how Draco Malfoy ate croissants. Time-consuming, but stupidly beautiful.

Everything about Draco was stupidly beautiful.

Every photograph of Draco was a glamor shot.

So Harry just laughed a little, said, “Sure, Malfoy,” and tore off a reasonably-sized piece of his own croissant. Ate it like a normal human.

-

Draco Malfoy at his usual was a completely different person than Draco Malfoy in Paris, Harry was learning. For one thing, Paris Draco smiled a hell of a lot more. Back home, Draco’s smiles were soft, unfiltered things reserved for Harry only and usually kept to the bedroom. But then, so was kissing, and Harry was finding that Draco was freer with both smiles and kisses when he was in Paris.

Whatever it was that had Draco loosening up, Harry was slowly growing more and more grateful. Initially, of course, it had been a shock to see a smile tossed carelessly at the doorman of their hotel, to the waiter at their restaurant table. Now, though, Harry was ready with his camera when Draco positively beamed at a local florist, leaning down to breathe in the roses while laughing at something she’d said. He had his hands in his pockets, but even that looked far more carefree than the way he stuffed them there when he was feeling nervous at home. When he replied in perfect French (Harry assumed it was perfect—Draco had mentioned more than once that French was his mother’s first language, that he had learned it right alongside English growing up), the girl giggled and held out a pink rose for him. He said something back, and his eyes flicked over to Harry. Harry tried not to look too obviously out of place as he smiled back.

That was the thing about Paris Draco: he blended right in, like part of the scenery. Nobody spoke to him in broken, heavily-accented English, because—for some reason—they all assumed he spoke French. They were, of course, not surprised in the least when it turned out that they were correct. He flowed through the city like water, elegant and perfectly homogenous with anything around him. Most of the time, Harry was too awestruck to be jealous. Even a little bit.

He clicked his shutter again as Draco loped over to him, a bright lily in his hand. Something about the way he moved was worth capturing on film, Harry thought. His gait and his smile.

“Hey, what’s the lily f—”

He didn’t even get to finish his question because Draco was kissing him. Quite soundly, and with a certain amorousness that Harry had never experienced from him before. From anybody before. Harry was suddenly a courted lover, a paramour, and Draco kissed him like something out of a movie from the 1940s.His tongue slipped into Harry’s mouth, and Harry wound his arms around his shoulders tightly like Draco had just rescued him from a tower and was going to keep him safe and loved for the rest of his life. Harry had never been _romanced_ before, but, with the way Draco was kissing him—

It was too soon when Draco pulled away, even though Harry was far more flushed and breathless than was proper, because—“We’re in the middle of the street, Draco!”

Draco smiled again, that soft, private smile that he’d so far never seen Draco give to anybody else. “Welcome to Paris then,” he said back, leaning in to kiss Harry’s jaw in a way that had Harry feeling positively _virginal_. Harry barely noticed Draco’s deft fingers slipping the lily into his button hole. “I’m so happy you’re here with me,” Draco murmured against his ear, and Harry shivered.

“M—me too,” he said, and he meant every stammered syllable.

-

He tried not to look like a thrilled child—he really did. But Harry had never been to France before, and the park was beautiful, and the people there were so fascinating that he had to forcibly stop himself from taking their picture right along with every other image he’d captured of the scenery.

Draco, meanwhile, had stretched himself out on a park bench in the shade (“I sunburn horribly, Potter, you know this”), a French novel cracked open in his hands. Harry had wanted to tease him at the book shop that morning for picking a dirty romance novel, but since Harry couldn’t read French, he had to go from the cover image and therefore didn’t know for sure if it was indeed a scotching romance or just a historical treatise on shirtless men. Still, Draco looked quite nice on the bench, body long and lean in a way that made Harry’s mouth water.

“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” Draco taunted. So Harry did.

Draco rolled his eyes and grinned.

Harry moved over to him, nudging his foot. “Buy us some ice cream?” he said, pointing over at the stand a little bit down the way.

Draco glanced up at him, eyebrow already cocked. “I taught you enough French for that,” he said, and Harry sighed. Draco had been making him use little bits of French throughout the city. “Just in case we ever get separated,” he’d said. Harry thought it was more an excuse to let him stumble around foreign words in a horrible accent before charmingly swooping in and saving the day with his perfect vowels and soft “r” sounds that purred in the back of his mouth.

“Yeah, but nobody here seems to like my French,” Harry tried, but Draco’s eyebrow only arched higher. Clearly, he wasn’t having it.

So, with a sigh, Harry stalked over to the ice cream stand, muddled through some words that must have made at least _some_ sense because the vendor got his order correct, and made it back to Draco with two cones of chocolate.

When he handed Draco his, he sat up and kissed Harry’s cheek. “See?” he said. “You survived. I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, thanks _professor_ ,” Harry teased, and Draco laughed, starting in on his ice cream. He wound up with a bit of chocolate on his nose, and Harry managed to get his camera out and take a picture before Draco could ask what was so funny.

-

Harry sank deeper into the enormous bathtub, letting the painfully hot water pull all the tension from his body. The water smelled of rose oil, and he dipped under, embracing the tingly pins-and-needles sensation on his face as the scalding water flushed him bright.

He’d had a letter from Hermione that afternoon. He hadn’t told her or Ron exactly where to find him in Paris, but he should have known that Hermione’s owl would be as clever as she was. She had wanted to tell him that she’d accepted the position with the Ministry and that Ron had decided to go into Auror training. Harry had smiled at that—good for them, really. Hermione would finally get her shot at making a difference in the magical community, and Ron would get his life-long dream fulfilled.

That didn’t help with Harry’s own problem, however.

Despite nearly drowning in all the job offers he’d received—accepted into the Aurors with only a month of training as opposed to the standard year! Instantly inducted onto the Wizengamot!—Harry still had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. He floated in the bathtub, eyes closed just under the surface of the water, and let himself feel adrift. After vying for some kind of solid purchase for the entirety of his eighth year, Harry still felt no more authentic than when he’d started, and he wasn’t sure if the feeling was liberating or melancholy.

His utter lack of direction had been one of the reasons why he’d been so quick to accept Draco’s invitation to France. He had nothing waiting for him back home but a name that carried too much fame and too many expectations. Everybody wanted to be the one to claim the Chosen One. He’d had invitations from everybody. Even Quidditch leagues wanted him. But Draco had been the only one to offer an invitation to Harry Potter, the eighteen-year old kid who sucked at Potions and loved to sneak out after midnight for long, exhilarating Seeker’s games.

Like always, Draco completely ignored his fame. Hated it, even. And Harry adored him for it.

As he surfaced, pushing his hair out of his face, he heard the click of the camera shutter. Draco leaned against the doorframe, wrapped in Harry’s oversized Quidditch sweater and nothing else. Smirking. “Mmmmm. Hello, lover,” he purred, setting Harry’s camera down by the sink and sashaying over to sit on the edge of the tub. The sweater rode up over his bare ass as he sat, and Harry wanted to press a kiss there, right at his hip. Then, he remembered they were in Paris, and he had nothing to lose. So he did. Nibbled a little, too.

“Don’t go flashing that picture around, Malfoy,” Harry warned, teeth grazing Draco’s skin just enough to drive the point home.

And Draco pulled him off with a tight grip on his chin, angling Harry’s face up toward his theatrical expression of absolute shock and betrayal. Harry tried not to smile as he dramatically protested, “I would never! After all, you’ve a reputation to uphold.” Then, Draco was sliding down to his knees outside the tub, eye level with Harry, their hands playing at twining. He looked right into Harry’s eyes with the most impossible expression, and it made Harry want things. Want everything. “I would never let anyone else see you like this,” he said, voice soft with all the things Harry craved. “This—” he gestured to Harry’s naked body stretched out in the tub. Caught a droplet of water as it slipped down Harry’s temple and pushed his wet hair behind his ear so tenderly Harry thought he might melt with it. “—this is mine. For my eyes only.”

Draco kissed him, and Harry swore he had never been kissed quite so purely by anybody else before. So when Draco pulled back just enough to murmur, “Mind if I join you?” Harry really had no other response than, “You know, I’m almost insulted you waited this long to ask.”

But Draco laughed. Pulled the sweater over his head, his neck and chest dappled with yesterday’s love bites, and, when he stepped elegantly into the tub—complained about how Harry’s baths were never hot enough—Harry held him to his chest, cupped his hands and poured water slowly over his hair until it was dripping. Kissed him until the water felt cool and Draco shivered. Then, he blindly groped for his wand, spelled the water hot again, and fingered Draco open with excruciating slowness. After Draco had come once from his fingers alone, Harry stood, lifted Draco under his hips (and loved when Draco’s long, beautiful legs wrapped automatically around his waist like they were made to be there), and moved them to the bed.

They dripped all over the rugs, all over the sheets. Harry knew there would be a good bit of cleanup later, but Draco seemed entirely unrepentant as he gripped Harry’s waist between his thighs and whispered, “Make love to me?” into Harry’s ear.

“What?”

Draco’s smile was like looking directly at a star—soft, cracked, and for a second, Harry thought he could see right into Draco’s heavily-guarded soul. “We’re in Paris. We’re lovers. Not teenagers looking for a quick fuck in a broom cupboard. Make love to me, Harry.” He stroked Harry’s unruly wet hair with hands that felt like feathers, his heel rubbing slow, gentle stripes down his back. And Harry thought he understood exactly what Draco was asking for.

As he pressed into Draco’s body, Harry forced his mind to take a step back from the dark, primal hunger—that urge to _move_ , to thrust, because _jesusfuckit’sgood_ —and made himself feel. Made himself understand what was happening here. This wasn’t a contest to see how hard he could make Draco come. Not a rush to take Draco apart, mark him up, or to get himself off. He moved slowly, a gentle rock back and forth, just looking at Draco, because this—this was meant to be romance. They’d never done this before.

Beneath him, Harry heard his own name ride the ghost of Draco’s breath, and he let himself float on it, adrift in a completely different set of possibilities.

All of a sudden, he didn’t give a damn about his career, about expectations. About what was going to accost him when he got back from Paris. He was _inside_ Draco Malfoy’s body. There was no more intimate thing in the world.

For one flashing second, Harry thought that, if he had to pick, _this_ would be what he’d want from the rest of his life. That maybe, perhaps, this was what it felt like to take that first breathless tip over the cliff and into love.

He couldn’t stop himself from bending forward, kissing Draco slow and deep, like he was all that mattered. Because, right then, he was.

The next morning, sunlight slanted through the open curtains, landing across Draco’s lax face. His whole body lay soft in repose, a flower petal settled on top of a clear sheen of water. Harry counted the love bites—both old and brand new—and wondered if Draco had always looked so content after sex. Looking at him was like a revelation, one that should have felt much bigger to Harry than it did. Instead, realizing that he was in love with Draco Malfoy came slowly. Naturally as waking on a lovely spring morning. It felt inevitable, as though they had always been headed this direction, from that first moment in Madame Malkin’s, and Harry was all the more idiotic for not seeing it coming on the horizon.

He slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and found the camera where Draco had left it on the edge of the sink the night before. Draco barely shifted when the shutter went off—he was mostly uncovered by the blankets; rather, he was surrounded by them, like they were actively cradling every curve of his naked body, every flat plane—but he must have been only dozing before, because he cracked a sleepy eye open, smiled warm and guileless, and said, “Good morning.”

When Harry only stared, Draco held out an arm. Harry rushed to it, sliding back into bed and nestling himself tight in Draco’s arms, kissing him like a sunrise. “Hey,” he said a while later. “I love you.”

Draco smiled. “Of course you do. You’ve only just realized?” Then, as Harry gaped, Draco laughed, slow and sweet and half asleep. “I love you too, you great buffoon. Always have.” And he lifted a hand, tousled Harry’s pillow-mussed hair, and promptly fell back into a gentle sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://aria-faye.tumblr.com/)! Always accepting prompts!


End file.
